


'Sherlock' and 'Watson'

by Buttros



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, Happy Ending, John is also smol but decently sized in some parts, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock is smol and soft, and a helpful Mycroft, bit angst, but cute later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-13
Updated: 2016-09-13
Packaged: 2018-08-14 19:08:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8025526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buttros/pseuds/Buttros
Summary: It was unexpected to John how well the words 'Sherlock' and 'Watson' went together.





	1. The wooden box

John Watson, before the fall, divided his relationship with Sherlock in two different periods: before and after Irene Adler. This was, in high sight, a very innocent way of interpreting things.

A word that could describe the before Irene Adler was ‘flirty’, so much so that John was honestly considering making a move. The intimacy that they shared was simple – brushing hands against shoulders and napes, silent smiles before bed and brushing their toes below the kitchen table. 

They once intertwined their pinkies on the cab home, when they were high after the conclusion of a case and their cheeks hurt from so much laughter. The day that their most treasured internal joke was born: The Decently Sized Joke. 

Sherlock was examining the dead violinist’s body, while John followed the trail of blood that lead to a very obvious red hand print on the wall of the man’s apartment. A very large hand print. John raised his ( _small yet distinguished_ ) hand and frowned at it, raising his head from it to look at the hand print, and then back at his hand a couple of times. After some time John came to notice Sherlock’s eyes on him, and how the detective was simultaneously amazed and bewildered by what he was doing.

And John, feeling like he had to compensate for something, sputtered ‘‘Look, other parts are… decently sized’’ as he frowned and realized the implications of his words. He burst out laughing at the same time that Sherlock did, and they had to be kicked out of the crime scene by Lestrade. 

They still pursued the case though, Sherlock not being able to stop smiling even as he confronted the killer – the pianist, _obviously_ – and John chuckling from time to time. 

After Irene Adler, however, Sherlock distanced himself, and their intimacy was reduced to what casual acquaintances have. Well, to what colleagues have. No more hands brushing against shoulders, and definitely no more penis jokes. Again, John’s priorities were the ones of a trash can, and so not in the right place.

When the fall happened, John died and not in a poetic or symbolic way. 

He looked himself in his room and neither ate or drank and, like a sad slave, stayed and thought of naught. He couldn’t bring himself to utter the words that he had to, that he wanted to, before the fall. 

It was only after two years of grieving that John Watson allowed himself to go inside Sherlock’s room. He didn’t have an actual reason to do it. He wasn’t looking for anything or even organizing Sherlock’s things. It was more than time to put everything in boxes, maybe even selling some of all of it, but that wasn’t John’s intent ether. He walked in and was welcomed by a strong smell of dust. He opened the window and its curtains, before sitting down on the bed. 

His chest felt heavy as he bit his lip before saying:

‘‘We met at work’’ John murmured to the room. An internal monologue questioning the necessity of all of this happed after that, and John’s resigned side won. He sighed before adding ‘‘She is a nurse. Her name is Mary… she’s funny, I suppose. And… clever. It makes sense moving in with her’’ 

It sounded like an apology. Fuck, it _was_ an apology. 

‘‘I feel like I’ve been cheating on you. How ridiculous is that?’’ John let out a broken laugh and got up. On his way out his arm brushed against the nightstand and Sherlock’s ( _unnecessary and irritating_ ) collection of rocks fell on the floor. With a long suffering sigh John knelt, bending to reach bellow the bed, as was greeted by the sight of a wooden box. 

In the years of Sherlock and his acquaintance John had never seen it, and a treacherous part of his brain supplied that it could be a last message, just for him - maybe even a small piece of paper saying ‘I’m coming back’. The box was shallow yet wide, the kind of box where a fancy shirt would be sold in. He sat on the bed, anxious, and slowly opened it. 

The inside of the box had unequal rectangular compartments, and in each of them were ‘John related’ things. In one of them was a stack of pictures of him, some of which were clearly stolen from the med school and military related photo albums, and others that Sherlock must have taken himself. John looked at each of them in a daze, wondering why Sherlock had kept them. In another compartment were his dog tags, or, better still, one of his tags, which lacked the string. He remembered the last time that he had seen them.

He had walked out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist and the tags around his neck. Sherlock had been seating at the table, trying and failing to keep his eyes away from John’s chest. John had laughed, finding it amusing that Sherlock was excited with military things, and gave the detective the tags by putting them around his neck. John, at the time, had though that the interest was innocent, but reviewing the contents of the box maybe he was wrong. Maybe Sherlock had had a _crush_ on him.  
But in all of that – including things that he hoped weren’t from the crime scenes that they investigated together and therefore had belonged to a dead person and should be with the family at best or in police custody at worst – John’s heart stopped when he saw the business cards. 

They were ornate, like the ones that Sherlock used to distribute himself, but with different engravings. They said:

221 B BAKER STREET  
LONDON Nw1

_SHERLOCK WATSON  
CONSULTING DETECTIVE _

John stopped breathing. Sherlock had taken the time to print at least a dozen of them – a specific number that must have been stipulated by the printing store. John held one of each dazzled. Sherlock had not only imagined them being together – which would have been more than enough to give John a heart attack – but had imagined them being _married_ and, in that scenario, taking John’s name. He had _wanted_ to take John name. And to be married. To _John_. To _marry_ …. 

The loud ring of his cellphone startled him from his discovery. His fingers trembled as he pressed the keys. 

‘‘Hello?’’ John voice shook and he sniffed. Only then did he realize that he was crying. _Christ_ , he thought, as he lowered the phone to wipe his face and his nose.

‘‘ _John?_ ’’ Mary’s voice had an edge of concern ‘‘ _Are you alright?_ ’’

‘‘What? Yeah, yeah, I’m fine’’ He closed box and put it back below the bed, but placed the ‘‘Sherlock Watson’’ card inside his wallet without thinking as he left the room ‘‘I’m going to your place right now, I just had to… pick up a few things’’

He closed the door and leaned against it, mumbling a ‘goodbye’ before hanging up. He didn’t want to think about what all of the meant. He couldn’t. The reasoning that he had come to – under Ella’s supervision – was that Sherlock killed himself after Moriarty destroyed his image. The premise was that John wasn’t that important, and so jumping in front of him wasn’t a big sacrifice. Needless to say the grieving process wasn’t as healthy as it could have been.

He had slept on Sherlock’s chair, or leaning against his gravestone. He remembered being dragged out of a bar by Lestrade a couple of times, and by Harry once. He was fed by Mrs. Hudson and by Sarah. Even Molly had stopped by with some food and tears in her eyes. Eventually people weren’t as uncomfortable with his attitude as they used to be. At first John got better at hiding his pain, and then he just… got better. He was well enough to notice the new nurse at the surgery flirting with him. And then he was well enough to flirt back. 

But this… knowing that Sherlock liked him – or even felt something stronger than that – threw all of his convictions under the bus. Maybe John going out with all of those women influenced in Sherlock’s self-loathing. Maybe it was all John’s fault. John slid down, with back against the door, and hugged his knees. _You can’t think like that, you are happy. You found Mary. You even want to move in with her. Finally get out of here,_ John thought taking a deep breath. 

Except he didn’t. Moving out of Baker Street was the last thing that he wanted to do, and knowing that Sherlock had liked him didn’t help. He felt simultaneously better and worst and, being John Watson, he couldn’t and didn’t want to face any of those feelings. He stayed like that, leaning against the door for what felt like a couple of minutes, when a loud knock and a ‘‘Dr. Watson?’’ from the kitchen informed him that it might have been longer. In any case, Mycroft Holmes was now staring down at him. 

‘‘Oh good. Just who I wanted to see’’ John voice was grave, like he had been screaming. He cleared his throat – and as subtly as possible wiped his face – as he got up. His emotionally closed of self took charge, as it normally did around people, and he pretended to be fine. John was really good at pretending to be okay. 

‘‘Doctor, sarcasm doesn’t become you’’ Mycroft said with his disapproving tone ‘‘Shall we move this conversation to the living room? With some tea, perhaps?’’

‘‘This really isn’t a good time’’ John sighed. Mycroft sat on the sofa and crossed his legs saying nothing in response to John. The doctor eventually complied while pretending to hear whatever Mycroft was starting to say. The first three minutes of conversation with Mycroft were necessarily small talk, and only then did he say whatever it is he came to do.

‘‘I can’t stay for long of course, there are pressing matters at hand at the office. What with another referendum concerning the European Union and the Greek situation my hands are tied’’ John gave him his tea as he sat on the couch beside Mycroft, who smiled as he brought the cup to his lips. Something changed in the man’s features, so subtly yet so clearly to John that he momentarily thought that he had accidentally put salt instead of sugar in the tea. Mycroft continued ‘‘I hadn’t seen such crisis since the Italian austerity. However, it is always nice to visit the Vatican’’

John frowned as he drank, raising his eyes to Mycroft’s before averting them again. _Did he just…?_ , John wondered – still hoping, with his mind locked on how well the words ‘Sherlock’ and ‘Watson’ went together - but said ‘‘I’ve never been there’’

Mycroft hummed and sipped from his cup before saying ‘‘Well, you are probably curious as to why I’m here’’. John just shrugged, trying to convey as much indifference as he could muster as he listened intently. _Maybe the house was bugged again_ , he thought with a shimmer of hope – and then gave himself a mental shake for actually thinking that that would be good. ‘‘I hear that you desire to move out of Baker Street’’

John looked at Mycroft, raising his eyebrows ‘‘How the hell did you hear that?’’ he asked, even though it lacked the conviction and anger it would have had two years ago. John’s motto now-a-days was ‘resignation’. 

Mycroft’s face did something that John could only describe as a ‘Bitch, please’. ‘‘Doctor, I’m leaving for a job at Eastern Europe for two months, maybe three’’ he lowered his cup and got up ‘‘I have to ask you not to leave Baker Street until then. I want to be here to supervise you… moving on, as it were’’ 

And John, who was looking for any reason to stay, thanked Mycroft in his mind, even as he scoffed at him as he walked out. 

‘‘I’ll bring you a cameo pendent from Bulgaria, Doctor’’ Mycroft smiled stiffly and left, turning his back to a bewildered and hopeful John, who pulled out his wallet and the business card inside of it.


	2. A conversation

When Sherlock came back there was no big commotion. 

He didn’t wear a disguise for half the day and then took it off in a dramatic turn of events. John didn’t pass out, yell, hit Sherlock or was made fun of for having grown hair in non-flattering places. He most certainly was not interrupted in the middle of a date – John had been strategically avoiding Mary for the past three months. 

Sherlock had walked into Baker Street with his big coat, a worn out backpack and a terrified expression. John had been seating on his chair, reading a crime novel. They stared at each other for about fifteen seconds before John got up, looked up and down at Sherlock’s fragile frame and left the room. 

‘‘John?’’ Sherlock’s voice was small, like he was on the verge of tears, but John soon came back with a medical kit. 

‘‘Take off your coat, jacket and shirt. Let’s take a look’’ The Capitan said. 

‘‘I’m fine’’ Sherlock murmured, crossing his arms in front of himself.

‘‘Sherlock, I’m a doctor. I know when people are in pain. Just let me take care of you’’ John sounded angry, his voice a bit rough, and Sherlock took a tiny step back before complying and sitting on a chair, with his chest against its support. 

‘‘Sherlock’’ John whispered, taking an assessing look at the scars which seemed to have heaved and the ones that didn’t. Sherlock was wearing his dog tag. John ran his fingers lightly on Sherlock’s shoulders and his nape, just on the edges of the string, before sitting on the coffee table and getting to work. 

It was only three minutes after the silent wound cleaning and bandage applying that heard Sherlock crying. ‘‘Does it hurt?’’ John asked, even though he knew that wasn’t the reason behind it. 

Sherlock shook his head, sniffing, before taking a deep breath and saying ‘‘I’m sorry for… for’’ And John interrupted him with a kiss to his nape and a nuzzle to his hair. 

‘‘I am majorly pissed at you’’ John whispered, his lips against Sherlock’s back ‘‘Very’’ he continued ‘‘A lot… But that’s nothing that a quick explanation wouldn’t solve’’

And Sherlock said, rather quickly and without stopping to take a breath ‘‘Moriarty was in the roof and he said that I should kill myself or else he would kill you. But I thought that that would happen so me and Mycroft-’’ And John interrupted him with a ‘shh’ to his ear. 

‘‘Doesn’t have to be now’’ He said, finally finishing his ministrations on Sherlock’s back and walking to stand in front of him. Said detective looked more terrified than ever, and John thought of all the times that Sherlock pretended to be above all else, and said that feelings were ‘the crack in the lens’. This was a man who had crushes and imagined how his name and that person’s last name would go together. John could see, right there, how big Sherlock’s heart truly was and, before he knew it, he was crying too. He ran his fingers through the detective’s hair, pushing back his fringe to give him a light kiss on his forehead. 

‘‘John’’ Sherlock said, his voice filled with wonder, as if John showing him love was the last thing that he expected. So John consequently, and naturally, decided to kiss him in every available surface. He kissed Sherlock’s tears and sadness away, considering a victory when Sherlock giggled after he nuzzled the detective’s neck.

John pulled the string of his dog tag and looked at it with a raised eyebrow. When he met Sherlock’s eyes, the detective was blushing. ‘‘I thought that it would be useful to have that-’’

‘‘Sherlock’’

‘‘I was able to walk into a military base using only-’’

‘‘Sherlock’’

‘‘Fine I… It calmed me’’ He looked down, took a deep breath and continued ‘‘I also stole a jumper’’

John let out his manly chuckle – which in some cultures, including the western, would be considered a giggle – and bit his lip. ‘‘I can’t judge. There are some things that technically belong to you that I’ve also been using to calm me down’’

John was smiling, but his expression soon turned very serious when he ran his thumb over that ridiculous upper lip and that sinful lower lip. ‘‘Do you mind if I…’’ He raised him eyebrow, playful, and Sherlock’s eyes widened.

‘‘Not at all’’ he whispered, but he might as well have said ‘please’, and welcomed John’s lips on his with a whimper. 

They kissed for some time – which in their minds was considered an eternity – until John’s back informed him that he was, in fact, in his late thirties. ‘‘Can I interest you in a horizontal surface?’’ He asked between kisses.

‘‘Lead the way’’ Sherlock rumbled, and John bit his lower lip as a thank you. 

Once they were comfortably tucked in John’s bed there was not much that they could do but cuddle and kiss, since Sherlock was hurt and tired. John was lying on his back and Sherlock on John, and it was perfection. So kiss they did, and it felt like a conversation, an apology and forgiveness. 

_‘I’m so sorry I hurt you’_ Sherlock said by running his tong across John’s lip.

 _‘I’m sorry you were hurt’_ John answered by caressing Sherlock’s cheek bone.

 _‘I wish I could have told you I was alive’_ Sherlock said by kissing John’s jaw line.

 _‘You_ are _alive and that’s what matters’_ John said by kissing the tip of Sherlock’s nose. 

Eventually Sherlock just rested his head on John’s chest, listening to his heartbeat, while John lightly ran his fingertips on Sherlock’s scalp. 

‘‘You were not… as surprised as I thought you’d be’’ Sherlock said as he traced patterns on John’s tummy. 

‘‘Mycroft came over saying Vatican cameos and telling me not to move out of Baker Street’’ Sherlock raised his head to look at John with an incredulous face and John shrugged ‘‘I kind of took the hint’’ 

‘‘You, John Watson, are pretty damn smart’’ Sherlock smiled, making John chuckle (again, giggle). The doctor just remained silent for a couple of minutes, so long that he thought that Sherlock was asleep, before having the courage to whisper:

‘‘But there was… another thing… that made me hopeful’’ And John’s heart sped up when Sherlock raised his head again ‘‘I was in your room… because of your rock collection and then the dust made me open the windows and…’’ Sherlock frowned, trying to decipher John’s narrative.

 _Come on, Watson,_ John thought taking a deep breath ‘‘I found your business cards’’

‘‘I always leave some of them in my nightstand-’’ Sherlock started but John interrupted him.

‘‘I mean… I found your _secret_ … business cards’’ And realization dawned on Sherlock just as a blush came to cover his cheeks. 

‘‘I figured that, if you liked me like that, you wouldn’t just… leave me’’ John said, and realized how innocent his reasoning was. Sherlock noticed that too, because his expression suddenly became very soft, a smile tugging on his lips.

‘‘I do like you… like that’’ The dramatic pause at the middle of the sentence was to tease John, but Sherlock continued, very serious ‘‘And I wouldn’t just leave you’’

John smiled and pulled Sherlock down for a light peck on the lips. 

‘‘Sherlock Watson has a very nice ring to it’’ John said, making Sherlock laugh. He placed his head over John’s heart again, let out a deep sight and whispered:

‘‘Yes, I think it could work’’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
